


Between

by GravityGarbage



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Can you believe I got paid money to write this filth?, Dry Humping, Frotting, Incest, It ain't that deep y'all, Like. The roughest frotting ever for real, M/M, Rough Sex, Stancest - Freeform, They grind one out against each other in a closet that's literally it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityGarbage/pseuds/GravityGarbage
Summary: When Stan and Ford get locked in a tiny closet by an irate greatniece, their options are pretty limited. They can either a) discuss their myriad of issues, b) kill each other once and for all, or c) have sex.Since neither one of them actually want the other dead and they are are both far too repressed to actually talk about their feelings, they decide to go with option C.





	Between

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've decided to archive my old grunkle sin works here on the off chance Tumblr decides to eat them during the Great Purge. (: Have fun and let me know if you think I undersold the rating or need to add additional tags.
> 
> Extra note: this was originally my first (and only) fanfic commission for a lovely stancest blogger on Tumblr named Ficksuck! I was gonna link back to their blog, but alas, it seems they've been taken by the Purge. ): RIP Fick.

It happened like this:

Stan and Ford were arguing, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence in and of itself, but the difference between this particular fight and all the many (many, many, _many_ ) fights that had proceeded it was that this time, Mabel Pines had had enough.

Anyone who knew Mabel knew that she was a sweet girl with a three-mile long fuse and no actual temper to speak of. However, her twin brother Dipper also knew only too well what happened to those who actually did manage to rile his sedate sibling up into a towering rage and he wouldn't be placing any bets on how long the subject(s) of his sister's particular brand of ire would survive. 

If only their great-uncles hadn't decided to host one of their infamous spats in the hallway leading to the kitchen, if only Mabel hadn't chosen that day to try her hand at baking a souffle in order to impress that one red-headed boy who had come into the Shack and few days ago and happened to look her way, if only Stan and Ford had managed to keep themselves from shouting at each other for the ten minutes it took for a hot souffle to set. (If only).

Needless to say, a crumpled pastry and an irate great-niece had led to the situation the older set of twins currently found themselves in. 

“Just so you know, I blame you for this.”

Stan snorted, unsurprised. “Yeah, so what else is new? Water still wet? Sky still blue? You still a huge pain in my lily-white-”

“All I'm saying,” Ford interrupted with a scowl at his brother's crudeness. “All I'm saying is that if you hadn't antagonized her, we wouldn't be in this-”

“Me, antagonized?! How the hell do you figure- _you're_ the one who instigated the whole fucking-!”

“Language! And what do you mean, _I_ instigated? I'll have you know that I've never _instigated_ anything in my whole-goddamnit!” Ford cursed as he tried to shift within the cramped confines of the broom closet and consequently banged his knee into the door-frame. “Jesus fucking tap-dancing Christ!”

“Language,” Stan mocked as he also attempted to wiggle into a more comfortable position that didn't involve being wedged up against his twin, an ultimately futile endeavor as it turned out. The space they'd been forced into was in no way built to contain two (over-)grown men of their, ahem, _particular_ stature. “Fucking crap on a cracker! Why the hell did you even have this stupid room built in the first place, Sixer? You had a lotta brooms needed special storage back in the day or what?”

“There are a lot of creatures that will fit comfortably into a four-foot by four-foot confined space, and some that in fact even prefer such conditions-!”

He cut himself off with an irritated grunt as one of Stan's elbows thumped into his sternum as his twin continued to squirm. “Unfortunately, neither of us are one of those- _Stanely for God's sake will you stop that_?!”

“Stop what?” Stan growled, bracing one shoulder against the locked (and where the hell had the girl even found the key?) door and wedging the other against the opposite wall, stretching until his spine creaked and twisting his hips as he tried to figure out how to untangle his legs from his brother's before one or both of his knees gave out under the strain of supporting both of their weights. “Want me to stop breathin'? Sorry bro-bro, can't do much for ya there.”

“No, you insufferable old grifter, stop-” Ford's breath hitched involuntarily as Stan finally managed to work one of his legs free by sliding it up and bracing it until it was fit snug between his twin's spread thighs. “-that! Stop that! That thing you're doing right now, stop it at once!”

“Still don't know what you're talking about Ford.” Stan didn't even seem to realize the compromising position he'd forced them into, too focused on trying to replicate his previous success and retrieve his other leg. “I ain't doing anything besides tryin' to get your lard ass to stand on it's own. Damn Sixer, what were they feeding you in those sci-fi shitshow dimensions you talked about, fuckin' _bricks_?”

“Oh that's rich, coming from you,” Stanford snarled, anger once more overriding his growing discomfort at his brother's proximity (a familiar defensive tactic for situations like these). “And for your information, every pound I gained beyond the portal is made up of pure muscle, thank you very much. Unlike _some_ flabby-waisted, backwoods-Jersey shysters I could ment-” 

The knee between his legs abruptly jerked upwards, making him choke around his last words, gasping in astonishment at the bolt of pure arousal that slashed through his body at the unexpected heat and pressure. 

Ford felt more than saw Stan freeze in place and for the first time he blessed the uncompromising darkness of the closet that hid the fiery blush he could feel spreading along his cheeks and up into his ears (blushing like a school-girl, really?! And at his age no less!). He grit his teeth against the wave of mortification his inappropriate reaction produced, feeling all of sixteen again and not liking it in the least. 

He cleared his throat self-importantly, pushing his shoulders back and tipping his chin up as much as he was able, firmly ignoring the harsh rasping sound (and the involuntary shiver it inspired) of stubble-on-stubble that sounded overly loud in the small space when his jaw unintentionally brushed against his brother's. 

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat again, awkwardly, aware of his twin's eyes boring a hold in the side of his head even as he intentionally avoided looking at the other man, focusing his gaze instead on the pitch-blackness somewhere over Stan's right shoulder. “A-as I was saying before, none of this would have ever happened if you'd just listened to me in the first-” 

He broke off with a shocked gasp when the knee pressed to his blatant hardness in his pants twitched and shifted, providing much needed friction and something warm and willing to rut against, which he did for a moment, lust fogging his brain and making him forget where he was and who he was with as he rolled his hips and ground his restrained cock shamelessly down against his brother's strong thigh with a deep, wanton groan pulled straight from his chest. It wasn't until he heard Stan's answering helpless groan that he remembered himself and snapped his eyes open, not even aware of when he'd shut them.

His face fairly burned with shame and he opened his mouth on reflex to stutter protests, offer factoids, and spout the results of the various extensive research tests done on the correlation between external stimuli and unintended erections in male-presenting test subjects, intending to stop what he was _sure_ would be impending mockery from his twin for his apparent over-eagerness, but the words died on his tongue.

Because then, oh _then_ , Stan started to move for real, rocking his hips up into Ford's and tightening his own thighs around the knee Ford hadn't even known was pressed up against Stan's own straining erection, grinding them together as much as he was able with the amount of room he had to work with (which wasn't much), hot breath coming thick and fast by Ford's ear. 

He could do little more through his shock then ride the wave of pleasure for a moment, tipping his head back until it thunked into the wood-paneling behind him, biting his lip hard to keep down any noises that might try to escape his throat. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help the shudders that wracked his frame every time the buttons on his brother's suit-jacket scraped over his stomach through his sweater, sending little jittery spikes of want shooting through him with every pass.

“Never took you for the type Sixer,” Stan rasped, deep voice managing to sound both amused and hungry at the same time. “My innocent, pure-as-the-fallen-snow little brother, gettin' off on rutting against his own twin in a dark closet. You should be ashamed of yourself. Although,” and here he punctuated his words with a sharp buck of his hips that made Ford gasp and whine in spite of himself, the pressure increasing to the point where it was more pain then pleasure (and that edge of pain shouldn't serve to turn him on even more, but _oh_ it did, it did). “You ain't never really had much shame to begin with, did ya?”

“I-I have no idea w-what you mean.” Ford mentally cursed the return of his childhood stutter which only ever made itself known in times like these. “And you know perfectly-p-perfectly well that _I_ -uh!-I was born first, St-Stanley.” 

He was nearly panting by the end, arching his back and rutting against his twin in short, barely controlled thrusts, knowing this action put lie to the facade of aloofness he was trying so hard to maintain but finding himself altogether incapable of caring in that particular moment.

Stan chuckled, the sound of cloth shifting together the only warning Ford had before one of his brother's large hands fastened over the back of his neck, drawing the other man forward until their foreheads tapped together lightly, a surprisingly sweet gesture they hadn't shared since they were kids, startlingly out of place considering the almost animalistic way they continued to grind together. 

And it still made Stanford blink and his heart skip a beat, despite everything, despite all the years and the ocean of bad blood between them, the simple, uncomplicated affection for his brother that had so characterized his adolescent and teen years warming him from the inside out in a way he couldn't control (even if he desperately wanted to).

“You know I love you Ford, and I always will,” Stan reminded him, as casually and with as little fanfare as breathing, because to Stan, it really was that simple. Stan loved Ford and that was the axis on which his whole world turned; always had, always would. Was it a healthy way to live? Not in the least, but who really cared? Certainly not Stan. 

Ford shivered fitfully at the words, but before he could even open his mouth to respond (though he had absolutely no idea what he was going to say), his brother interrupted him once again. “I love you, but the whole reason we're in this mess in the first place was because you wanted to fight.” 

And then he smiled, quick and sharp and predatory, gleaming in the darkness, and Ford didn't need to see it to know the lascivious promise it contained. “You wanted a fight, so let's fuckin' _fight_.”

He hauled the other man forward into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and wet, filthy suction right from the start, increasing the speed and pressure of his thrusts until Ford was yelping and whining into his mouth, balancing on the too-keen edge right between pleasure and pain, unable to collect his thoughts enough to choose one side or the other.

But he wasn't to be outdone. Ford gave as good as he got, kissing back as deep and dirty as he knew how, biting and licking and sucking at any piece of his twin's skin that presented itself to him.

Stan bit down on the curve of his brother's jaw and Ford groaned and bucked his hips; Ford ran his blood-hot tongue over the curve where his twin's neck met his ear and Stan swore and squeezed Ford's leg even tighter between his own. It was hot and desperate, turning the enclosed, limited air within the closet muggy and as charged as the atmosphere in a lightning storm, the smell of sex rising thick and heavy between their moving bodies like a fog. 

It was violent, it was messy, it was painful. It was a fight.

A fight Ford abruptly lost when Stan fastened his teeth in Ford's bottom lip and _pulled_ , vicious and fast and not at all gentle and it was too much, too much, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Ford came with a scream muffled into his brother's neck, rocking his hips helplessly, drawing out the overwhelming sensations that ravaged his body for as long as he could, licking the sweat from Stan's skin, sucking hungrily at the pulse that hammered under his tongue before biting down, _hard_ , and then Stan was coming too, snarling and cursing and gasping for the oxygen his starved lungs couldn't find in the cramped space.

And of course (of course, of _course_ ) Mabel chose that exact moment to decide her grunkles had probably had enough punishment for one day and swung open the closet door with a flourish and a bow.

She blinked in surprise and confusion down at the groaning tangle of limbs her great-uncles now made on the floor, neither of them having been prepared for their sudden release from captivity enough to keep themselves standing. 

Mabel frowned, a worried crinkle between her brows before a bright smile broke out across her face. 

“Well!” She folded her arms over her bedazzled sweater and tipped her chin up in triumph. “Looks like you two really did learn you lesson!”

“We sure did Sweetie,” Stan managed to grunt, laying boneless and unresponsive even as Ford frantically thrashed to free himself from his twin's heavy, clinging limbs. “And you know what? I think I'm really starting to enjoy these little one-on-one sessions with my brother you keep badgering us into. Got any more bright ideas?”

Mabel clapped and squealed with delight, Ford turned the color of a ripe tomato and hissed like a scalded cat, and Stan just smirked. Everything was once again right with the world. Perfect.


End file.
